


The Nameday Request

by Egleriel



Series: Nameday Gifts [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, F/M, Farce, Sandor getting in his own way, Sansa is not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 23:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13422066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel
Summary: In which Sansa tries to proposition the Hound so ineptly, he thinks she's coming out to him. Silliness ensues.





	The Nameday Request

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, this is completely ridiculous, but it popped into my head while walking the dog and I had to exorcise it.

On her four-and-tenth nameday, Alayne Stone had watched the knights of the Vale vie for winged helms at Sweetrobin’s tourney. The tourney drew a knight in the service of Lord Varys, and his carelessly-worded raven drew the fugitive queen with her huge knight. And where Cersei and Gregor went, their brothers followed, and from there one thing simply led to another.

 

On her five-and-tenth nameday, Sansa’s shield led her through the gates of Winterfell as Wardeness of the North, preparing the way for little Lord Rickon.

 

On her six-and-tenth nameday, she watched the men raise the new roof for the Great Hall, shirts discarded as the sun blazed with the promise of summer, and to her disquiet she found her gaze drawn to one of them in particular.

 

On her seven-and-tenth nameday, he handed her an exquisite silver miniature that showed a young Sansa hugging Lady on the kingsroad. The detail was breathtaking. In that moment, something in Sansa disintegrated and she decided that she would have eyes for no-one else.

 

Today, her eight-and-tenth birthday, she would actually ask it of him. She was the Stark in Winterfell and Starks did not shy from confrontation. Better to ask, be denied, and part ways forever than to pass another day in craven longing.

 

 

“Before you retire, Sandor, would you share a cup of wine with me?” she asked briskly. “There is something I would ask you.”

 

The Hound shrugged, accepted the cup from her trembling fingers and gave her a dark look. The fire in her solar had burned low, giving him no pause as he seated himself heavily.

 

“Asking a question, or asking a favour?” he scowled.

 

“A- a favour, in truth,” she admitted. “At least, it would be a favour to me. Mayhap it would be nothing to you. Before I do, I should warn you… you will probably think it unseemly, and far beneath your honour as my sworn shield.”

 

Sansa blanched, wishing she could take the words back; the last thing she wanted to draw attention to was the difference in their stations. It would only make the matter even more awkward.

 

“Of course,” she babbled, “I ask you simply as someone whom I trust beyond all others, and you have every right to refuse. You will probably judge me harshly for even asking. But just in case you were, by some chance, amenable…”

 

 _You are a Stark!_ Sansa told herself furiously. _How hard can it be to ask a man to bed you?_

 

“Stop chirping, little bird,” said Sandor wearily. He sighed and sat forward, elbows on his massive thighs. “I know what you’re going to ask. I’ve suspected something like this for a good while now, but I never thought you’d want to speak about it. Not with me, at any rate.”

 

“You knew?” she squeaked, her heart hammering. This wasn’t good. He sounded so _sad_. It certainly wasn’t the reciprocal declaration she’d been hoping for. “How did you know?”

 

Raising his eyes from his cup, he shot her a glance through the curtain of dark hair. “There were clues. Don’t get me wrong, girl, it’s not that I’m _unhappy_ about the way you feel, it’s just… seven hells, you do know how to make life difficult for yourself. I don’t think anyone else knows, though. They were subtle clues, and I do spend a fucking _lot_ of time with you.”

 

Sansa felt her throat constricting. Gods. It was surreal to hear Sandor talk about her feelings for him in such a detached manner. She expected rejection would hurt, but she never realised it would be so _humiliating_.

 

“What clues?” she croaked.

 

Sandor looked at his feet, scratching his neck. “We-ell… I’m no expert on this shit, mind. There was the time Jon tried to make you marry the Martell boy and I asked you when you were going to pick yourself a knight or lord to save him the trouble. And you said-“

 

“That I hadn’t looked at a knight or a lord since I was a girl, sighing over the Knight of the Flowers.”

 

“That was it,” he agreed with a weak smile. “Seemed like an odd thing to say at the time. There were a few odd things. Like how you’d come to the sparring yard but you’d react so strongly whenever there were bodies on display. I don’t know how many times I saw you turning away looking, I don’t know, _disgusted_ or ashamed, or something. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

 

Burning with embarrassment, Sansa thought of all the times Sandor had almost caught her looking at him like piece of meat. Like she was some slattern looking for a desperate tumble from the first strong man who’d have her. For all that she cared for and respected him, she could not help appreciating him physically, too. She loved to see him duel with the other men, his build and skill alike making them all look like callow boys.

 

How could any man compare? How could she not dream of how it would feel to be pulled into those huge arms? And when they took to the blunted tourney swords, armour shed in the summer sun, how could her looks not linger longer than was entirely wise?

 

“Of course I was ashamed,” Sansa lamented. “I felt so guilty for reacting as I did on those days. You deserve so much better than-“

 

“Don’t _ever_ fucking say that,” said Sandor forcefully; “You’re fucking perfect exactly as you are. You’re the damned Stark in Winterfell, aren’t you? Apologise for nothing, just keep moving on.”

 

Even now, she was touched by the fierceness of his loyalty. _So passionate, damn him, like the first time – the only time – he kissed me._ Instinctively, she guessed he would’ve been good to her, if only he’d granted her request.

 

He looked pensive then. “There were other moments. I’ve heard you asking around about the brothel in the Winter-Town.”

 

Sansa felt sick to her stomach. It had taken every ounce of her courage to speak to her maids, each individually. She’d been trying to guess at what the Hound sought, exactly. What did he like in bed? What would help her seduce him, and better still, keep him?

 

“Please, don’t speak of it any further. It’s just… I don’t want to be a maiden any longer,” she finished lamely. “I hoped that _you…_ ”

 

What had she hoped? That he’d understand? That he’d accept a free _fuck_ gratefully? That he saw her as a woman, not as a little sister or a damsel in distress?

 

“You deserve so much better than that, Sansa,” Sandor rasped, his voice low and heartfelt. “Your first time should be with someone who truly loves you.”

 

It hit her like a blow to the gut. He couldn’t be clearer about his feelings. Sansa knew she wouldn’t have him any other way than blunt and honest, but her feelings still craved a little cushioning.

 

“Even if I _did_ do as you ask, you have to know word would get out. A bit of gossip like that would be all over the North before you even put your smallclothes back on. You deserve better than that, too.”

 

“There’s already plenty of gossip about me,” said Sansa bitterly. She sighed, barely holding back the tears. He’d turned her down. Not only that, he’d explained why, point by point.

 

With the speed that always shocked and thrilled her, he somehow came to be on one knee in front of her, tipping her chin upwards. Stormy grey eyes searched hers, and on his ruined face she could read compassion.

 

“I know it must be hard for you,” he rasped gently. “In time you’ll find someone you care for, who’s worthy of you, who’ll be able to give you what you’re asking for. I’m sorry that I can’t help you.”

 

Sansa sighed, looking down at her hands.

 

“Since it’s my nameday, and you’ve made it quite clear that you won’t, you know, take me…”

 

“Yes, little bird?”

 

“Could I ask for a kiss instead?”

 

Daring to look back at his eyes, she glanced up just in time to see them cloud over. “A kiss from who?”

 

She rolled her eyes, disappointment emboldening her in a reckless kind of way. “Well, from you, obviously. It’s not like I’ve asked anyone else to take my maidenhead tonight.”

 

The Hound leaned back, jaw dropping. He gaped for a few long moments and Sansa felt vaguely annoyed that he reacted so strongly to her frankness. _He_ was the one who always chided her for chirping.

 

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked huskily. A weak smile twitched Sansa’s lips as she nodded. “So… you don’t prefer ladies to men?”

 

 _What? Where would he get that idea?_  Sansa frowned and shook her head. The movement freed a long auburn curl from her elaborate hairstyle, which Sandor tucked behind her ear.

 

"When you said... you don't want me to take you to a..." His gaze swept frantically over her face and then her body. Sandor gulped.

 

“Little bird,” he said slowly, “I think we’re going to have to start again.”


End file.
